


Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

by rightsidethru



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 10+ 1 contracts, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, a brief summary of humanity's history: as influenced by a devil, give you one guess who's number 11, no historical figure is safe, peekshow into Sebastian's past, slices of history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 17:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: These are the ten contracts that remade the world but not Sebastian, and the one contract that finally did.





	Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

**Author's Note:**

> Before you get started on this: This was always one of my favorite Kuro pieces that I've ever written, and so I finally decided to bring it over from ff.net. HOWEVER. This was also written back in 2010. (Guh. So old. *is ancient*) 
> 
> Additionally, there were further chapters added onto the first after the BFF at the time requested I expand on each of the sections. Unfortunately, there was a reviewer that nitpicked over every little historical detail; it was frustrating since, yes, I did do some research but nothing extensive since I wasn't paid for the story. With that said, I never finished the fullset of the expanded chapters--but the first (this one here) was originally complete, as-is.
> 
> I'm fully aware that there are mistakes--historical and writing-wise--in the story, but. Well. _Seven years_. (Seriously. So old.)
> 
> Regardless, I've always had a soft spot for this story and it's also nice to see how much I've grown as a writer and what's changed since the original post date.
> 
> Timeline-wise, if I remember correctly, this maaaaay have been posted around the Noah Circus arc? I think? *eyesquints in thought* Regardless, no spoilers for anything that followed that particular arc.

**Abyssus Abyssum Invocat**

******

" _God made everything out of nothing, but the nothingness shows through."_  
Paul Valery

  **I.**

 The man sat alone, silhouette stark against the pre-dawn light as he stared out over the field. Yesterday had been the first celebration that he, his brother, and their parents had given in honor to Yahweh, and he had spent all last growing season in anticipation. The farmer had offered up the best of his crop, the sweet fruit of his hard labor. His father had been condemned to toil away hours and days to coax living things from the soil, and he had followed in his footsteps: days, weeks, months he had worked and worked hard to offer up his bounty to Yahweh. But his crops had been disdained in favor of his little brother's lambs, the newborn creatures slaughtered upon their family altar.

 His head bowed and the man's hands came up to press his face against the rough calluses of his work-worn fingers. He was a broken man: offering up the best that he had and being scorned for that offering. What more could he do…? Nothing. Nothing at all.

 And so he despaired.

 There was a deep-seated ache within his chest at the knowledge that his God had rejected him, put him aside to watch from the sidelines as the favored younger brother was loved and adored for napping while he should have been watching over the family's flock. They had already lost four ewes to wolves the past winter, and he could only imagine just how many more they would lose this coming one from his brother's carelessness. Starving and with very little food, they would all turn to the crops that he had harvested from the earth—the crops that Yahweh had refused to accept.

 "I have nothing else to give," the man whispered, wishing oh-so desperately that things were different: that he had been welcomed by the one most loved, had softly smiling lips pressed to his own forehead. But that had not happened and the resonating sense of complete and utter  _loss_  overtook him. This was a denial of something so particularly striking that he knew he would never have.

 "Come and make a contract with me, and perhaps we may change that."

 The voice had come as a surprise, and the man stiffened before jerking his head upwards; his gaze met that of a beautiful creature, pupils narrow and striking, much like a great cat's, and glowing with a muted umber light in the last remnants of the night. It smiled at him, and the man couldn't stop the quiet shiver of foreboding that prickled down his spine and raised the small hairs at the base of his neck. But that smile… oh, how it  _called_  to him. And he succumbed to that sultry welcome with only a slight hesitation, expression yearning for that divine type of love that he knew he would always be denied. Here, though: here was a chance for that sweet touch of heaven.

 "Yes," the man answered simply, and Cain reached out to clasp the devil's hand.

**II.**

 The child sat beside the mummy of his father, knees pressed snugly to his fragile chest with arms wrapped tight about his shins: his father had been an interesting man while alive, and the boy knew that he was expected to carry on the legacy that the other had started. And yet… he was still so young and so very, very afraid of the responsibilities that would be falling upon his hunched shoulders the moment that he stepped out of the tomb. He had been groomed for this role since birth, had been taught by his mother-aunt and had been told over and over again by his father-uncle to always,  _always_  keep his head held high.

 But the fear was suffocating.

 "Why did you have to leave me so soon, Akhenaten? I am not ready for this… Father." The words were spoken with true anguish, and the boy's voice was scarcely louder than a hoarse, choked-back murmur. His gesture was tentative, but the boy still reached out and pressed the palm of a hand over the dead man's chest—hoping, perhaps, that he might actually feel a heart beating, praying to his father's One-God to bring him back to life so that the boy would not have to do this alone.

 There was no answer, however, and the man remained dead.

 The tomb was silent, and the boy's hold around his legs tightened further as he huddled in on himself; though hope was dwindling, he still wished so desperately that there would be a guiding hand that would show him what to do. His father's advisors were untrustworthy, and even Smenkhkare, his uncle, could not be taken into confidence. He could not go to Nefertiti, either, for she held control—for now—as regent and should he make one misstep, the boy knew that his stepmother would hold no mercy for him. It was the way of their family. It was the way of the court. But, oh, how incredibly lonely that made him.

 A great responsibility had fallen to him, and the boy did not know if he was strong enough to carry the burden on his shoulders, especially not while there were advisors who currently held much more power than he had in his own slim hands.

 "Please. Someone help me," the child whispered huskily, curling his svelte fingers in towards his palms, clenching his hands into desperate fists. "Please."

 "I will help you, little one. For a price."

 The boy gasped, the only sound in the sudden silence of his father's tomb: he looked up with wide, dark eyes to meet a gaze that shimmered like the heart of a flame. The pupils were narrow, a black abyss that called to something deeply buried within the boy. He trembled, reaching out towards the man to lightly caress his fingertips over the ivory skin at the back of the man's hand.

 "Are you Agathodemon?" the child asked, voice hushed with awe. The man's—creature's?—skin felt silky and inexpressibly smooth, sleek against his own skin, much like the Egyptian cotton that his maids wove for him during the hot summer months… but obviously worth so very much more. Idly, his fingertips trailed down a finger to rest over the top of one black claw.

 "Oh, no, little one. I am much, much better."

 The words stirred within the boy's chest, and he slowly shifted away from his father's mummy as his gaze never left the other's. Closer and closer still, the boy stepped—drawn in by that enigmatic smile, lips parting as the creature gave a quiet, pleased chuckle at seeing the child's blatant fascination. Eventually, though, the boy spoke: "…what price is it that I must pay?"

 Pleased that humanity seemed to have developed some sense of wariness—the concept that nothing was ever truly free and that one must always,  _always_  ask the terms of the bargain before agreement—it was an evolution in the social consciousness that the devil hadn't yet expected but was pleasantly surprised by.

 Lightly, the creature reached out and tilted the child's face upwards with one finger to admire the regal features, the high cheekbones and the full curve of the mouth, that he had inherited from his father. There was so much potential there, and the devil fully expected to mold this boy to meet the requirements that he needed. To think that this boy would eradicate so many things that his father had strived to build—to once more let heathen religion spread across Upper and Lower Egypt… ah, it would soon enough be a glorious time.

 "You will be one of the greatest Pharaohs that Egypt has ever seen, and your name will be forever remembered even after your body has withered into so much dust. But the price is your Ka, Tutankhamun."

 The boy shuddered in sudden, abject terror as he continued to meet the creature's eyes, his voice barely audible as he spoke in an attempt to buy himself more time to come to an adequate decision. "My name is Tutankhaten."

 A low, sultry chuckle was the child-Pharaoh's answer:

 "Ah~ Not for much longer." 

**III.**

 "Your people spit in scorn when your name is spoken of in the streets," the dark-haired creature murmured as he stepped up behind Qin Shi Huangdi to drape his arms leisurely over the broad shoulders of the Chinese emperor, body snugly flush against the ornate brocade and expensive silks of the human's clothing. "They speak of how you uselessly use your artists to build your terracotta army, how you have buried so many families beneath your Great Wall, how you have entombed such a  _very_  large number of the greatest scholars of this time, how your men and women never returned from Zhifu Island—and how this is all a conspiracy so that you could cling to your reign for as long as possible. How, too, you are not Zhuangxiang of Qin's legitimate son."

 The devil chuckled quietly, dipping his head to murmur sibilant words against the tense mortal's ear, letting his lips brush here and there to tease and taunt for the fleeting looks that Qin Shi Huangdi occasionally gave to him out of the corner of the other's eyes. "Your people bow and belittle themselves before you, and yet they have you once your gaze has been averted. Such a poor, pitiful fate you have, Qin Shi Huangdi, the First Emperor of China~"

 With a shrug of his shoulders, the royal man dislodged the creature from its position so that he could step forward and brace his hands against the edge of the balcony to look out over his collection of artisans that had dedicated themselves to building him his terracotta army, the prefecture of Shaqiu stretching out as far as the eye could see. "Be silent, Mówáng, or leave."

 A quiet 'tsk' slipped through the humid air of the palace, and the creature shifted to step around the emperor, easing himself up onto the granite wall at the edge of the balcony. The devil's mouth curved into a perfectly sinful smile and the creature's ebony eyebrow quirked as Qin Shi Huangdi tried his best to ignore the seductive man before him. "Ah… So I would assume, then, that you no longer wish to hear news of what it is that you have been seeking? Or the item itself?"

 Qin Shi Huangdi's eyes widened, almost impossibly so, and he immediately gave the devil his full attention—the gesture of which sparked a note of sadistic that lingered deliciously within the demon's belly. "You have found the elixir?" the emperor breathed, voice reverent as he stepped close and closer still, hands scrabbling desperately at the air, wanting what it was that the demon had so incredibly much. "You have it? Give it to me! Give it to me  _now_!"

 "…if that is your wish…"

 Smile coy, the devil offered up a small satchel that the emperor immediately clutched at, fingers tight and greedy around the black bag. The human trembled with intense emotion, jerking at the silken ties that kept the bag's opening shut, tossing away the cords to quickly gulp down the contents hidden within.

 It was then that the pain began.

 "Oh…  _oh_!" Qin Shi Huangdi gasped as his knees gave out, hand clutched over his chest as his heart raced out of control. The demon watched as the man's skin began to shed, a flush rising to fill out the apples of the Chinese emperor's cheeks—with the sweat, which could have easily been explained away by the heat caused by the sun, the ruddy face made it appear as if Qin Shi Huangdi had just imbibed a little too much alcohol. "M-Make it stop…! I don't wish to die!  _I don't want to die, Mówáng!_ "

 The demon's smile deepened even further, and he tilted his head back to look up into the sky and the sun that traveled towards the West. As the emperor finally had no other choice but to release his now-tenuous hold on life, the wicked creature idly toed the human's body over so that corpse was resting on its back.

 "You are less than the dirt of the earth," he said, tone jovial as the demon slid off of the balcony's edge and began to walk away from the now-dead First Emperor of China. His boots tap-tap-tapped as he made his way across the open expanse, heading towards the doorway that led into the inner rooms of the provincial palace. "There is no such thing as 'immortality' for vermin such as you."

**IV.**

 The thirty pieces of silver gleamed in the red-gold light of sunset, and the bribe that he had taken—the price of a kiss—transmuted darkly into the gradient shades of blood. How apt, the one-time Apostle thought, closing his eyes to the evidence of his betrayal as he allowed the money to sift through his fingers to fall to the dirt beneath his feet. The metal pieces click and clinked against one another, each vying for attention: a physical representation of the greed that had made Judas succumb.

 "Come, come now," the devil murmured playfully as he circled around the despairing man, lips curved in delight at the taste of horror and desperation that lingered sweetly on the tip of his tongue. "You wished for worldly riches—money enough to buy the things that you had always wanted but could never have. You have that money now. You wished, too—and such a greedy master you are, truly—for the people of Israel to rise up against a common foe. To band together and make one conscious, united decision that the Romans could not fight against. And this wish was granted to you, as well." The creature chortled to himself at that, obsidian-tinted talons trailing lightly over Judas' chest. "They did band together, you know—to kill the one that you loved the most."

 "Stop. No more," the broken man begged quietly, tear tracks making their way through the dust and sweat that coated his face, cleaning his sin with the sense of true loss. He stepped over the pile of money, leaving it behind as he stumbled down the road. His movements were shaky, awkward in his shock; he knew, as well, that the other eleven disciples would soon enough come for him, Jesus' betrayer. They would kill him just as thoroughly as he had killed their Messiah.

 The pieces of silver had come at too dear a cost, and that realization came at too late of a time; Judas knew that nothing could be done, that his lord and lover, his best and only friend, would now be carrying the cross that would be used for his crucifixion through the streets. The crowds would jeer, thirsty for more blood: it would be a horrifying time for Jesus, humiliating from what would have been done to him: and Judas had been the one to condemn him to it.

 With a kiss.

 He moaned, sprawling by the side of the road as he became violently sick. He vomited up the last supper that he had had with the other man, chest heaving as sobs, too, forced their way out of the tight, compressed knot of hurtpainloss _anguish_  that burrowed deeper in the place where his heart should have been.

 "Forgive me! Oh, Yahweh—forgive me my transgressions!" the confidant of Jesus cried, staggering back to his feet as he made his way further into the woods, bits of dead and dying scrub scratching his skin and clinging hungrily to the roughly spun cloth of his clothing. "Forgive me! Forgive me, Jesus!"

 The demon watched as he leaned against a boulder as the one-time disciple hung himself from the branch of a tree, body swaying in the slight wind that wound its way through the vegetative cover. It hadn't been a pleasant form of execution: the human had judged the distance and his own weight incorrectly, and instead of dying from a clean break of his neck, Judas was now slowly strangling to death. Wiping the dirt from the shine of the leather of his pants, the devil made his way towards Jesus' betrayer, movements predatory as he watched the man suffocate.

 "There is no salvation for those who have sinned directly against God," the devil informed Judas, smiling wide enough to reveal the delicate points of his canines as the human's eyes widened in horror. "I should know."

 Gesture indolent, the devil punched a hand through the betrayer's chest to rip out the still-beating heart, watching the blood trickle through the white of his fingers, pattering on the ground at his booted feet. He tightened his hold on the organ, and it burst with a spray of blood to cover both corpse and demon with the glorious scent of Hell. Licking his lips free of blood, the devil's fingers continued to clench, watching with twisted adoration as the heart ripped to shreds within his grasp.

 It wasn't as if Judas would be needing it, after all.

**V.**

 The city burned.

 And as the city burned, its Emperor watched as the pride of lions lunged forward, batting at the cowering Christians as the woman and her child huddled together. The Coliseum's rose up all around Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the stonework throwing off shadows that stretched towards the Games' most recent victims—reaching out as if to swallow the Christians whole before the lions could have the chance to move in for the kill. Nero shivered in delight, leaning forward to watch the proceedings with eyes that hid the taint of madness.

 "See how they cry out for a God that does not answer them," the demon seated on the armrest of his chair purred out silkily, reaching up to almost affectionately trail his fingers through the tight curls of Nero's hair—the gesture echoing the attention that the Roman Emperor gave to the dog seated at his own feet. "See how they weep, how they beg for a mercy that will never come for them. So deluded they are, their belief shaky at best as they wait for a salvation that will forever be denied to them."

 The demon's eyes glowed with Hellfire, the burning sharp as the power hidden within his aristocratic body flared and pulsed over and over again as the lions finally began to feast upon their prey, the screams of the unlucky believers echoing up and rebounding over and over again off of the stone walls of Rome's most prized possession.

 The emperor called for another—and another yet—watching with an ecstatic expression as human after human, man, woman, and child all, were dragged out onto the playing field—breath bated as each person succumbed to the lions' hunger. He had been purposefully starving the creatures for weeks, and now that prey was at hand, the animals gorged themselves.

 The Christians fell at his hand, just as the Jews fell at his soldiers' hands in the war that he had begun: only right for these people to die for the foolishness of their beliefs. To deny that Jupiter was the Father of all, that Juno stayed by his side to help guide him with her womanly compassion? To deny that from Minerva all wisdom came and that it was Venus' breast that inspired mortal men to love? The refusal to acknowledge the true state of things had kindled the flame of fury within Nero's heart—and it was at this creature's encouragement that he had begun his war, eradicating the world of those people who could never see the truth for what it was.

 Rome was might, Rome was ever-lasting, Rome had  _become_  the world.

  _Veni, vidi, vici._

 The blasphemers and heretics would soon enough see the error of their ways, and they would see, too, that Rome's loving embrace would ensnare all—engulfing all other nations within her voluptuous body. There was no escape: They all would soon enough come to realize this.

 "Again! Again!" the emperor roared, eyes sparking with his intent; he stood from his chair, leaning over the edge of his dais to watch his loyal soldiers pound their fists to their chests, the metal of their armor rattling with each movement, and then proceeded to duck into the catacombs to drag out more victims for Nero's Games. His hands tightened over the top of the banister, breath hitching in anticipation, and the demon watched with indolent amusement as the man's knuckles whitened in barely-restrained lust for blood. The tension was almost sexual in its bittersweet taste. "Release them all to the lions!"

 And the city of Rome burned.

**VI.**

 The battle at Mynydd Baddon had been the bloodiest that Emrys Wledig had ever lived through, but the Anglo-Saxons had been pushed back into Essex and Aelle himself had fallen beneath his sword. It had been a victory but, as most victories these past few years, it had come at a price—and the price was getting steeper with each battleground.

 The grizzled man made his way through the fields, stepping around the bodies of his comrades and enemies both; it had been a particularly hot day and Emrys wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, wincing at the pain when he came in contact with the wound from the arrow that had clipped him early on in the fight.

 "Damn and blast," the weary captain muttered as the scratch once more began to bleed. At least it had clotted during the melee—there would have been no way that the soldier could have afforded being blinded by the blood. It would have cost him his life, Emrys knew; it was pure luck, as well, that he had lived thus far.

 One day, however, the Anglo-Saxons would press through the guarded borders and end up overtaking the Britons' remaining amount of land. If things didn't change—and change soon—he and his people would lose. And then there would be nothing left for them to claim, to call home.

 Shaking his head at the depressing thoughts, Emrys made his way up the trail towards Liddington Castle and the camp that he and his men had made beneath its stone walls. The healers would be there, and the warrior knew that—at the very least—he would have to allow the men and women to at least clean and find it so that the wound wouldn't fester with rot. It was tempting, though, to just leave it as-is and let the rest be damned. It was getting harder and harder to care.

 "Such dark thoughts this particular leader of man possesses," came a richly bemused voice from the shadows; Emrys jerked in surprise, body instinctively dropping down into a defensive position as his sword was once more drawn. The reaction made the owner of the voice laugh, openly entertained by the mortal's antics. It took just a moment longer before a man stepped out from beneath the shade of the trees: young and beautiful, he watched Emrys from beneath thick lashes and with eyes that were far too cynical and  _knowing_  to ever be considered human.

 As if reading Emrys' mind—perhaps not such a far-fetched idea considering those  _eyes_ —the dark-haired man smiled slowly and tilted his head to the side in a gesture that was bird-like, completely bestial and without a trace of humanity within it. "Ah, how incredibly right you are," the man purred and began to step closer and closer still, movements languid and unhurried.

 Emrys tensed, gaze tracking every minute movement: on edge and realizing on an instinctive level that a choice between life and death would soon enough be presented to him. "What is it that you want, Sidhe?"

 Another laugh at that, and another smile, this one quirked enough to show the hint of a deadly fang. "Sidhe? Oh, no. I'm something much,  _much_  more fun." The laughter eventually eased off, though the smile ended up remaining—tugging the man's lips upwards as he began to circle about the soldier the way that a wolf would right before it moved in to strike. "Tell me, Ambrosius Aurelianus, how much longer do you think that your men can fight? You lose many each battle and still more are beginning to let go of their hope; it is only your name that keeps them fighting on."

 The man shuddered, eyes briefly closing tight: how was it that this man—if man or faerie he be—knew of his parents, knew of his Roman lineage, the great men and women that he was descended from? It was… frightening. He had kept it from the men, knowing just how bitter the Britons were over Rome withdrawing from their lands to leave them at the mercy of the Anglo-Saxons.

 Tensions—and tempers—were high, and though Emrys loved his fellow countrymen… still, he could not  _trust_  them.

 Following that particular thought, the devil shuddered in delight—knowing full well that his prey would soon be desperate and would soon be willing to take the bargain that he would present. A trade for trade: an equal transaction, and it was one that made the devil lick its lips. It had been a long, long time since the last contract, and though he didn't need to feed… gluttony wasn't his patron sin, but how could he resist indulging when the opportunity presented itself?

 "Your name," the devil whispered, voice coaxing and sweetly cajoling. "It is your name that gives your people hope. Come and make a contract with me, and I will ensure that your people will always feel hope when your name is spoken aloud: you will become an ideal—" and, oh, here it was so difficult to keep the sneer from his face "—for your people to hold tight to. Come, come~ Cross your palm with my own."

 "And what is it that you expect in return?" Emrys asked, mouth suddenly dry as the umber-eyed man brushed against his body, hand smoothing teasingly over the arch of the soldier's hip.

 A whisper came then, a murmuring velveteen voice that stirred the strands of hair against his throat. "Your soul, Ambrosius Aurelianus. Your soul, for hope is an exceptionally expensive commodity."

 Emrys closed his eyes, throat tight as he fought the pricking of tears at the corners of his eyes. His soul…? His immortal soul to be sold to ensure the safety of his people, to ensure that they would always have a home to call their own…? It was a steep price, indeed, and yet… these were  _his people_. Not able to bring himself to speak, Emrys silently nodded his head in agreement.

 The demon growled hungrily and the last sound that Emrys heard before everything ceased to  _be_  were the purred words, "All hail Arthur, King of the Britons."

**VII.**

 It had been a slow voyage on the barge that made its way up the River Arno, but the sight of beautiful, beautiful Florence spread out over the banks of the river and the Italian countryside was a sight that brought tears to Giovanni Boccaccio's eyes. "It has been many years since I have last seen my home city," the Florentine said to the willowy creature at his side. "My father and I have been in Naples for far too long—our lives have changed since we were here last, but I intend to stay in Florence from now on."

 "To be inspired by your city in your work?" the devil asked archly, glancing at Giovanni from the corner of his gaze; the demon's expression was the epitome of cat-got-the-canary and, for just a moment, the writer felt a stirring of unease. And yet… perhaps all was truly well: the devil had offered itself up to be shackled to him, had helped Giovanni acquire many things that he had needed. Had promised to provide an inspiration so that the author could write what he hoped would be his greatest work yet:  _The Decameron_.

 Averting his gaze and trying to release the feeling that something was wrong—very,  _very_  wrong—Giovanni cleared his throat and once more looked forward so that he could watch his beloved city come ever closer. Despite the trials and tribulations he had gone through and finding his true and destined lady love of his heart in Naples—and finding her also to be already  _married_  to Robert the Wise… ah, there had been much heartache while Giovanni had been away. But that was then and there and in the past, and with being home again, Giovanni would have the chance to start anew. Lady Fortune had been frowning down at him for much of his life, but the writer was determined to charm her into finally giving him her blessing, fully intending to claim her coveted kiss for himself.

 The poetry that he would write, the stories—and perhaps, too, his dear friend Petrarch would come to visit and they could once more catch up on the goings on within each other's lives in the way that letters alone couldn't completely convey. Yes, he had truly missed Florence—and for so many reasons. The demon at his side would help him claim so many otherwise missed opportunities. It was time for a change. It was time for a new start. It was time for a different  _life_  to begin.

 It was good to be home.

 Giovanni lingered a bit longer on the deck with the devil at his side, watching the sailors work the cumbersome barge towards its allotted pier. It had taken longer than expected until they had finally landed, but the Italian man used the time to gather his belongings together, tossing his satchel over a shoulder before making his way down the gangplank.

 The devil, however, remained still for several moments after his current contractor had made his way down to the pier. The only witness to the events that were taking place, the man with eyes the color of heart's blood watched several rats scurry off of the boat, some of them swimming awkwardly through the water to head towards the opening of the sewers that formed a labyrinth beneath the city; the demon quieted his shudder of ecstasy, his shadow upon the deck darkening with malevolence for less than a second before he regained control of himself.

 Two thirds of Europe's population completely annihilated within a few short years—

 Oh, how he looked forward to it all.

**VIII.**

 "I wish to utterly annihilate them."

 Despite the years that he had spent on the mortal plane, it still brought a frisson of delight to the demon when he came across a new depth to human darkness. Here, the demon was confronted with an image of a pathetic boy: so very young and with eyes so very old, echoing the abyss that he had been plunged into with his father's betrayal. This human had spirit: the audacity to insult his captors, the refusal to be broken with the repeated beatings, the despair that would have driven so many to suicide at seeing his younger brother defect.

 But the boy had survived, and the boy had forged himself in his hatred to become a mortal that resonated with iron intent. And there was so much chaos and destruction that the devil could wreak through the boy's future actions, the eddies of anticipation once more slipping through his Hellfire eyes. So much potential, and the world would still remember this boy's name centuries from now.

 "Tell me," the creature began, voice rumbling in the air like the foreshadowing of a storm. "Tell me, boy, do you wish to form a contract with me? I could hear the screams of your enemies from the bottom of the Abyss—and you have only just begun."

 An answer to the offer came as a small smile, dark eyes smoldering with banked fire.

 The child slowly seemed morphed before the demon's eyes, becoming older, harder, crueler—refusing to allow crime and conspiracy in his homeland, ruling with an vengeful first as he eradicated the corruption one person at a time. One by one, his family's betrayers fell and the child—now a man with just a blink of the devil's eye—could only bring himself to feel a black sort of satisfaction.

 The corruption began to flee before him, and the Ottoman Empire—led by the bastard Mehmed II—was held at bay each time it attempted to invade Transylvania. He fought and fought and killed and annihilated everything within his path, and Vlad Țepeș was a man feared throughout the known world.

 "It seems as if your servants don't approve of the places where you prefer to dine," the demon said, offering up a chortled comment as he draped himself over Vlad's shoulders, using one as a comfortable, padded chin rest. The devil's smile was sly, and he glanced askance at the servant in question: setting plates down upon the pine table with one hand, the other used to pinch his nose shut as he made his way through the Forest of the Impaled.

 The Transylvanian prince idly quirked an eyebrow as he and his devil watched the servingman go about his business. Waiting until all of the food was laid out, Vlad leaned forward—not-so-accidentally dislodging the devil's perch—and gestured the peasant over. "Why are you doing that?" he asked, allowing his tone to be conversational and shifting his appearance into becoming a man who was easily approached by his household.

 "My lord, I cannot stand the stench," the man answered honestly, voice slightly nasal due to the fact that he refused to relinquish his hold upon his nose, gorge rising whenever he did so—the rotting of the boyars and the Turkish soldiers who had come to take over the prince's home made the servingman's gorge rise and he had already been quietly sick in the underbrush several times throughout the meal.

 In reply, Vlad laughed gaily, facial expression convivial as he smiled at the servant. "Ah. Is that so?" A slight gesture brought his guards forward: they grabbed the servant and took him into the Forest of the Impaled where the man was soon after screaming in pain and terror as the prince's loyal men began to put him upon the highest stake. Pitching his voice to carry over the shrieks, Dracula called out: "If that is so, my friend, then you shall live up there where the stench cannot reach you."

 The demon laughed, and the hoarse cry of the raven echoed within the sound.

**IX.**

 The devil's favorite part of humanity was the hypocrisies that they self-perpetuated.

 In an attempt to gain power that was always very firmly denied to her, the Catholic Queen had agreed to a contract with him: Mary, Queen of Scots, and a not-so pious soul. The irony had always been an element of secret glee for the devil had always purred with sated, sadistic pleasure whenever a follower of God renounced Him to follow the path downwards into Hell. What could be more perfect than to have a woman, this particular woman, one of the mortals who had a claim to the Divine Right of Kings—and lo, how far the mighty have fallen.

 Pride was a sin that many succumbed to.

 He circled around the praying Queen, enigmatic smile curling his lips upwards as he stepped—paused—stepped—paused, taunting the doomed woman with his presence. She trembled as he continued on with his journey, but her face was surprisingly free of tears as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "You promised me power. You promised me that I would have the chance to rule."

 The devil couldn't help but laugh at that particular accusation. "I  _did_  give you the chance to rule, my lady."

 Her dainty hands clenched in restrained fury, though Mary's brows furrowed as she snapped out in reply, "This is a  _lie_. You promised me that I would rule England—"

 Tutting quietly, the creature interrupted the royal before she could get much further. "You asked that I give you the chance to rule. I did. You ruled Scotland when you returned to Leith after your lord husband Francis died. You  _ruled_ , my lady. But you never made it understood that you wanted to rule  _England_."

 The middle-aged queen stared at her own personal devil for achingly long moments as her face bleached white, all color leaving her normally rosy cheeks. Realizing the error that she had made as a seventeen year-old girl, forgetting that wording was so key—for such a large portion of her life, she had been tricked. The demon had manipulated her words, deliberately taking them at face value. And leaving her with absolutely nothing: No husband, her child denied her, a kingdom that she would never be able to look after and guide with a Catholic sensibility.

 She had sold herself to the devil, and Mary finally realized that nothing but oblivion would come of it. A shudder wracked through her body, and the normally regal woman clutched desperately at her rosary, praying harder than she had ever prayed before for some type of saving grace.

 It did not come.

 The next day, the demon lounged against a wall at the back of the crowd that had gathered to witness Mary, Queen of Scots' execution. His eyes sparked with sadism when the first strike from the ax only clipped the queen on the back of her head, but finally stirred himself to come closer as the second strike finally cleaved her head from her body.

 He didn't bother stifling his amused chuckle as the executioner held up Mary's head for all to see, the last public recognition for the ex-royal, and the man's rumbling baritone called out through the courtyard, "God save the Queen."

 God save the Queen, indeed.

  **X.**

 Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna wished that her mother would turn about and finally  _see_  her; however, that was not to be: Archduchess Maria Christina, her older sister and her mother's favorite child, was visiting from the estate—and their mother would be preoccupied with the favored daughter for hours on end.

 "It isn't fair," the young girl whispered to herself, fingers knotting in the muslin of her day gown as she watched the two older women walk arm-in-arm through the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace. The jealousy rose up within her like bile, and it was so incredibly hard to force herself to swallow it down.

 The harpsichord creaked warningly in her hands as her knuckles turned white.

 "If it isn't fair, then why not change things?" came a voice at her shoulder. The blonde girl started, turning about to look up at the exotic-looking man with large blue eyes. Seeing that he had frightened her, the dark-haired man's smile developed a cruel edge. "With fourteen other siblings, I can only imagine just how difficult it would be to gain your mother's attention. Still, though, I may be able to help~" The last was said with a playful wink, and the Archduchess blushed prettily, glancing down at the toes of her shoes that peeked shyly out from beneath her layers of petticoats.

 "And how would I go about doing that?" Maria Antonia asked after a brief silence, weighing her response and considering whether or not it was truly wise to vocalize such curiosity—but the loneliness and the desire for her mother's attention had been such a driving force in much of the girl's life. And with someone offering up a solution, stranger though the man might be…? She had to take it.

 "Watch and see. Watch and see, sweet Archduchess," the man chuckled.

 When she looked up again, the man was gone. Breath catching in her throat—had he been a ghost?—she clutched her instrument to her chest, heart hammering before she finally turned to run from the hallway that overlooked the gardens.

 It took several months to finally realize what the beautiful man had intended, but when the realization hit… Maria Antonia was left helpless as she watched family member after family member die from an outbreak of smallpox. So many succumbed to the disease, and the girl could only watch with tear-filled eyes and with shaking hands pressed to her mouth as her siblings left her to fly upwards to reside in heaven.

 For surely heaven actually existed and surely her family went there to live for the rest of eternity—no truly evil actions of their own having condemned them to death; in the end, it was the foolish interest that she had given in a bid for her mother's love and affection. Her agreement. Her contract.

 And her mother's consideration had been bought with the deaths of her sisters.

 "Maria Antonia, the alliance between Austria and France has finally been agreed upon. With you the only eligible daughter remaining, you have been betrothed to the Dauphin of France. I am so proud of you: My daughter, very soon you will restyled as Marie Antoinette, Dauphine of France—and you will help bring peace to our two countries."

 The beautiful man watched from the shadows, and Maria Antonia knew that her fate was sealed. 

**XI.**

 " _Oh~_  Well, aren't you a very small master."

 The chuckled words slipped like sin through the hushed chamber where the cultists had gathered for their ceremony. The darkness deepened, parting to reveal the nothingness of the Void—and several of the men and women, not prepared for  _what_ , exactly, had been summoned went bad with the knowledge of the pitiless Abyss. Ignoring the fools, the devil stepped closer to the altar where the pretty-eyed boy lay spread-eagled: these humans had thought to sacrifice something so expressly exquisite, using the child for fodder for the lower legions?

 How  _wasteful_.

 The boy stirred slightly, head lolling about on his limp neck as he turned to the side so that he could watch the devil approach. So cynical, those eyes. It had been such a very long time since the demon had last had a mortal look at him with eyes such as those—and, perhaps, there truly had been  _no_  mortal that he had come across that had been able to reach that soul deep level of inner night.

 "Do you wish to form a contract with me?" the devil asked as he step-step-tapped his way around the altar, the adults falling away with frightened murmurs. They clutched at one another, but the devil dismissed them all for now: his entire attention was given over to the boy that continued to meet his Hellfire eyes with an unwavering stare.

 Something shifted within the devil's chest, and—for the first time in his exceptionally long lifetime—he felt the need to offer up a warning before the child agreed to the farce covenant:

 "Remember that once something has been lost, it can never be returned. Your soul is the payment that I seek. If you agree to the contract, you will be denied access to heaven—now and forever more."

 The boy reached out with too-thin fingers, body obviously malnourished, and wrapped his hand tight around the devil's wrist; he clung with an intensity that was wholly unexpected, noble pride still in existence—in tatters, but present—as his hold intensified just enough to press tendon to bone. "Form the contract," the boy ordered, voice ringing with an authority that all of the previous contractors had lacked; belatedly, the demon realized that this child would  _never_  back down from any challenge that would appear before him. This contractor would be different from all of the rest. "And then kill them all."

 Staring down into those sapphire-blue eyes, the right one shifting to violet as the demon's contract symbol imprinted itself upon the iris and pupil, the demon surprised himself by experiencing a gut-wrenching yearning, a sharp spike of  _want_ that immediately settled within his belly and chest, burrowing deep to ensure that it could never be dug out.

 The Void swirled, devouring all that it touched. Amidst the screams of horror, the ember hidden within the devil's gaze sparked to life; as the devil and his contractor continued to look upon one another, that spark began to blaze and soon enough became an inferno. Hotter and hotter the Hellfire burned, and the demon knew instinctively that this was a flame that would never burn out, the intensity stark enough to burn even him.

 "Yes, my Lord."

 

**End.**

 


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